


see it spinning in the twilight

by halfmoonsevenstars



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad, Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 06:51:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10714398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars/pseuds/halfmoonsevenstars
Summary: Hue, Vietnam, 1967.Mike Erhmantraut has left the Marine Corps for HYDRA. His handler, Alexander Pierce, introduces Mike to his new partner, known only as "the asset".





	see it spinning in the twilight

_November, 1967. Hue, South Vietnam._

What could he say about HYDRA, except that it paid a hell of a lot better than the Marine Corps, even though he was doing just about the same work? It was a well-run organization, Mike thought, even as he held its very reason for existence in contempt; and his wife and son deserved a better life than that roach-infested hovel in West Philly.

He’d initially been surprised by the revelation from his former C.O., but not exactly shocked once he’d taken the time to think about it. Pierce was _exactly_ the kind of asshole who thrived on bureaucracy-sanctioned violence.

Mike had taken a few days to think about the offer before finally accepting; Nancy’s latest letter had talked extensively about how aggressive the rats were getting, and her choices lately were to either wait in the darkness with Matty’s Louisville Slugger or to try to sleep with the lights on.

He’d made up his mind before even refolding the letter and sliding it back into the water-spotted envelope—did it _ever_ stop raining here?—to add to the small parcel he carried inside his jacket. And by the time Mike had retied the string and replaced the letters, he’d even managed to convince himself that this was a good idea.

After all, it really was a lot more money for pretty much the same job. That he might occasionally need to carry out his job duties in a way that seemingly ran counter to American interests was something Mike would just have to get used to.  Keeping up the pretense of still being in the Corps wasn’t too difficult, especially as he was ordered to continue wearing his uniform, and HYDRA was careful to keep his pay schedule the same as the old one.

Mike had figured he’d wind up spending Thanksgiving in Hue. After all, he’d spent the past two and a half years celebrating all the major holidays overseas, so why would this be any different? He might have liked a USO show, just to liven things up around the joint before they were sent deep into the jungle, but this was HYDRA and nobody knew they were even there—not the regular armed forces, and certainly not the USO.

He spent the next three days in something of a holding pattern, lavishing as much attention on his weapons and gear as he possibly could in the wet, warm vestiges of a small typhoon. It didn’t bother Mike to wait; he was particularly good at waiting.

He was nevertheless surprised to find out on the fourth morning that he wouldn’t be going out with Strike Team Victor after all.

Instead, Mike met his new partner, a young white guy with short dark hair who wore so many layers of tactical gear that it was a wonder he hadn’t given himself heat stroke yet; he even wore leather gloves.

Pierce introduced him as “the asset” and nothing more.

The asset himself seemed to list a little to the left as he stood at attention, like something was weighing him down at the shoulder, and the vacancy in his bright blue eyes worried Mike.

But, as usual, Mike said nothing and waited for Pierce to continue.

Pierce gave them a map and a list of a baker’s dozen of targets—mostly NVA, but some ARVN and even a couple of Montagnards—who were all expected to be in the area over the next week or so. Eliminating these targets would not be difficult, he assured Mike and the asset, but it would require a great deal of patience and discretion, which was why they had been chosen in the first place. They would see the benefits of their actions by late January.

“The asset will be your spotter,” Pierce said after his standard little speech about the greater good. “You’ll take the shots. Any questions about that?”

_Are you sure this guy should be anywhere near firearms?_ came to mind, but Mike knew better than to ask that. “No sir,” he said instead.

“Good. I expect you back here with a full mission report in no less than one week’s time.”

“You can count on that, sir.”

Pierce beamed suddenly, his own bright blue eyes crinkling up at the corners like an affable old uncle bestowing favor on a prized nephew. Mike had to fight to keep his knees from locking. He was grateful to escape Pierce’s presence—even if it was with the asset, who still hadn’t uttered a single word, let alone a sign that he had comprehended any of this.

The asset remained unnervingly silent as they picked up supplies and packed up their gear, even leaving it to Mike to hitch a ride out of Hue from a couple of doctors on their way back to their MASH unit.

\---

“This isn’t so bad,” the asset murmured, not looking up as he took off his right glove and ran his fingers along the burnished stock of the M40. “I miss my Johnson rifle, though.”

“I thought they phased those things out a long time ago. No good with bayonets, I heard.”

The asset shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is I never shot better than I did with that Johnson. Less recoil.”

“This one’s pretty accurate,” Mike said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the M40. “Only problem is, they used wood to build it, and then they gave it to a bunch of assassins working in a _jungle_.”

The asset nodded. “High-grade plastic would’ve been better.”

The corners of Mike’s mouth quirked up for just a second. “You’re telling me.”

It was the longest conversation they had for three days. As if by some mutual agreement, Mike and the asset kept more or less silent unless the situation necessitated conversation, which even then was brief. It suited Mike just fine; he preferred not to make too much small talk with the asset, who still unnerved him even though the most violent he’d been so far was in his dreams.

Then, the asset would thrash around—while Mike, halfway through his watch, kept his distance and ensured that his gun was at least half-cocked—sometimes striking deep holes in the rain-softened ground with his left fist, occasionally blurting out a serial number upon jerking awake. He’d then realize where he was and snap his mouth shut, and it struck Mike that the asset looked as if he were trying not to flinch in those moments.

The days passed quickly, despite how much time Mike was spending living in his own head; the map and list they’d been given were so up-to-date that it made their work that much easier. The asset turned out to be an excellent spotter—although that had been expected—and with his assistance, Mike took seven shots without missing.

It wasn’t exactly that he _missed_ the eighth shot so much as the target—a Cambodian who had funded a good chunk of the NVA’s sabotage activities in his own home country—flinched at the last possible second thanks to a particularly huge mosquito, and instead of hitting him between the eyes, Mike got him in the throat.

The Cambodian didn’t pitch over right away, but clawed at the hole frantically, and the asset snarled in vicarious frustration.

Mike adjusted and fired again, this time hitting the target where he’d originally intended.

The asset exhaled noisily, slumping against the base of a nearby tree, his eyes still narrowed. Mike felt that he probably should have been more worried than he was, but at least he knew that the asset _had_ emotions now. It was almost kind of comforting, in a weird sort of way.

“I _never_ miss,” the asset said after a few minutes of mutual silence.

“We didn’t,” Mike pointed out. “It took two bullets, but they did the job, and that’s another name off our list.”

“But it looks sloppy.”

Mike bit back the sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh, if only because he understood the complaint well.  And he was positive that he wasn’t mistaking the asset’s tone; there was a distinct complaining ring to it, a little more nasal and sharp around the edges than his voice had been before, when it’d been flatter and more generic. “Can’t be helped now.”

The asset shrugged. “Guess so. I still don’t like it, though.”

“ _You_ want to try next time, then?”

And for the first time, the asset smiled.

\---

“Mission report?” Pierce asked, barely glancing up from the stack of paperwork in front of him.

“Successful, sir,” Mike answered. “All targets achieved. And clean kills, all of them.”

No need to embellish on the Cambodian, but he couldn’t help but be proud of the way they’d taken care of the list. Although it wasn’t extensive, it required more patience and skill than most people had. And the asset had acquitted himself more than well, taking over.

Traditionally, the better sniper served as spotter, but watching the asset had been a real experience. He would confirm Mike’s coordinates and aim before the target was taken out in what seemed like only a matter of nanosecond, displaying no evidence of stress or tension whatsoever. Mike was a good shot, but every time he made the decision to pull the trigger, his heart started beating battle drums in the hollow of his chest and his breath caught in his throat, anticipating that one time he’d miss.

“Excellent. Take the night off, Erhmantraut. Asset, report to medical.” This time Pierce didn’t look up at all.

The next time he reported to Pierce, Mike found that not only was he being sent back to the United States as a reward for his service, but also that HYDRA had found him a career at the Philadelphia Police Department, with a salary even higher than he’d already been making and a benefits package that sounded too good to be true, until Mike saw the precinct’s captain’s letter.

As for the asset – Mike wondered occasionally what happened to him, but that was none of his business, now was it?

\---

_May, 2014. Barnard University, New York City._

It’d be an understatement if she blogged about this as a weird day.

First, the news of Captain America going on the run after committing a supposed terrorist act – not that the media would specify, because of _course_ not, and it’s not like Kaylee believes that bullshit anyway – and then a bunch of previously-until-right-now secret helicarriers crashing into the Potomac? What is _happening_? Where did those things even come from? Some secret hangar under the Mall? A bunker in Rock Creek Park?

And what would Grandpa say, if he could see this? He’d read _Nick Fury and the Howling Commandos_ to her every time they saw each other, just about.

Now there’s even more breaking news. SHIELD’s been hacked or something, and literally every single one of its files, even the most classified ones, have just been released to the internet in one go.

_Yikes_.

Well, yikes for the feds anyway, Kaylee thinks, grinning a little.

On a whim, Kaylee clicks from Buzzfeed’s article to the file depository itself and presses _Ctrl+F_ , then types in her name. After all, she’s spent enough time complaining about President Obama not closing Guantanamo Bay for long enough; there’s bound to be at least _something_. Hopefully, it’s comments about her Spirk fanfic from the NSA. It’s pretty much her goal to get on at least half a dozen watchlists by 2020, as Kaylee’s joked to her friends.

“Project Insight?” she reads aloud, smirking to herself. Sounds like a lame internship at some big environmental technology firm.

It’s all there – her name, her home address, her dorm address, her cell phone number, her driver’s license number, her SSN, and more. Kaylee isn’t surprised, really, but she has to wonder about the coordinates given. It seems a little specific, even for a government agency.

It’s not until she gets to the actual mission details for Project Insight that the breath catches in her throat and Kaylee’s vision goes blurry for a moment.

She’s immediately grateful that Grandpa _isn’t_ here to see this—it would break his heart to know everything he fought for was bullshit in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a line in A.A. Bondy's "The Mercy Wheel".


End file.
